The Second Randall Garrett Megapack Page 3

  Bzzzz! The old-fashioned lock announced that it was open. Karnes stopped fishing and opened the door, letting Brittain follow him in. He stayed in the lead to the elevator, and pushed the button marked “4.”

  “You getting off before four?” he asked conversationally.

  “No.”

  The elevator slid on up to four without another word being said by either man.

  Karnes was judging the speed of the elevator, estimating the time it took for the doors to open as they did so, and making quick mental comparisons with his own ability to climb stairs at a run. The elevator was an old one, and fairly slow—

  When the doors slid open, he stepped out and began to walk easily down the hall toward the stairway. When the elevator clicked shut, he broke into a run and hit the stairway at top speed, his long legs taking the steps three at a time.

  The stairway was poorly lit, since it was hardly ever used, and, at the fifth floor, he was able to conceal himself in the darkness as Brittain turned up the hall toward 523.

  Karnes looked closely at his surroundings for the first time. There was a well-worn, but not ragged, nylon carpet on the floor, dull chrome railing on the stair bannisters, and the halls were lit by old-fashioned glo-plates in the ceiling. The place was inexpensive, but not cheap.

  Having made sure that Brittain actually had entered 523, he stepped back toward the elevator in order to notify Lansberg.

  A sudden voice said: “You lookin’ for-a somebody, meester?”

  Karnes turned. An elderly man with a heavy mustache and a heavy body stood partway up the stairs, clad in slacks and shirt.

  “Who are you?” frowned Karnes.

  “I’m Amati, the supratendent. Why?” The scowl was heavy.

  Karnes couldn’t take any chances. The man might be perfectly okay, but—

  * * * *

  Lansberg’s steps sounded, coming up the stairs. With him was a Manhattan Squad officer of the Police Department.

  “Shhh, Mr. Amati. C’mere a minute,” said the cop.

  “Oh. Lootenant Carnotti. Whatsa—”

  “Shhhhhh! C’mere, I said, and be quiet!”

  “You know this man?” Lansberg asked the policeman softly, indicating Amati.

  “Sure. He’s okay.”

  Lansberg turned to the superintendent. “What do you know about the guy who just came in?”

  Amati seemed to have realized that something serious was going on, for his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I dunno. I don’t-a see who it is. Whatsa goin’ on, Lootenant Carnotti?”

  “What about Apartment 523? Who lives there?” asked Karnes.

  “Oh, them? Meester and Meeses Seigert. Artists. Sheesa paint pictures, heesa make statues.” Then Amati’s eyes widened knowingly. “Ohhh! You guys da Vice Squad, eh? I theenk theresa someteeng fonny about them!”

  Footsteps sounded coming down the stairs from above.

  “We watched the indicator needle on the elevator door in the lobby, and I signalled the ’copters on the roof,” Lansberg whispered.

  The hallway began to fill quietly with police.

  Lieutenant Carnotti assigned one of the men to watch Amati, mainly in order to keep him out of the way, and Karnes led the men down the hall towards 523, guns drawn.

  Karnes knocked boldly on the door.

  “Yeah? Who is it?” asked someone inside.

  Karnes pitched his voice a little lower than normal, and said: “It’s-a me, Meester Amati, only me, the soopratendant.”

  The imitation wasn’t perfect, but the muffling effect of the door would offset any imperfections.

  “Oh, sure, Mr. Amati. Just a sec.” There was a short pause, filled with muffled conversation, then somebody was unlocking the door.

  * * * *

  Things began to happen fast. As the door came open, Karnes saw that it had one of those inside chain locks on it that permit the door to be opened only a few inches. Without hesitation, he threw his weight against the door. Lansberg was right behind him.

  Under the combined weight of the two men, the chain ripped out of the woodwork, permitting the door to swing free. As it did so, it slammed into the face of the man who had opened it, knocking him backwards.

  There were seven or eight other men and two women in the room. One of the men already had a heavy pistol out and was aiming it at the doorway. Karnes dropped to the floor and fired just as the other’s pistol went off.

  The high-velocity three millimeter slug whined through the air above Karnes’ head and buried itself in Lansberg’s shoulder. Lansberg dropped, spun halfway around from the shock. His knees hit Karnes in the back.

  Karnes lurched forward a little, and regained his balance. Something flew out of his coat pocket and skittered across the floor. Karnes didn’t notice what it was until one of the men across the room picked it up.

  Brittain had picked up the mind impressor!

  Karnes was aware that there were more men behind him firing at another of the conspirators who had made the mistake of drawing a weapon, but he wasn’t interested too much. He was watching Brittain.

  It only took seconds, but to Karnes it seemed like long minutes. Brittain had evidently thought the impressor was a weapon when he picked it up, and, after seeing his mistake, had started to throw it at the door. Then the impressor shimmered slightly, as though there were a hot radiator between the observor and the object. Brittain stopped, paralyzed, his eyes widening.

  Then he gasped and threw the impressor against the floor as hard as he could.

  “NO!” he screamed, “IT’S A LIE!”

  The impressor struck the floor and broke. From its shattered interior came a blinding multi-colored glare. Then there was darkness. Karnes fainted.

  When Karnes awoke, one of the policemen was shaking him.

  “Wake up, Mr. Karnes, wake up!”

  Karnes sat up abruptly. “What happened?” He had no time to be original.

  “I don’t know for sure. One of the Leaguers threw a gas bomb of some sort, and it knocked out everyone in the room. Funny, though, it even knocked out all the Leaguers. When the rest of the boys came in, everybody was out cold on the floor. Most of them are coming out of it now, except for two of the Leaguers. They got some lead in them, though, not gas.”

  Karnes stood up. He felt a little dizzy, but otherwise there wasn’t anything wrong. He surveyed the room.

  On the floor was a slightly yellowed spot where the impressor had flared and vanished. Lansberg was unconscious with a copiously bleeding right shoulder. Two other men were rapidly being brought around by the police. Three of the League agents were still out; nobody tried to wake them up, they were being handcuffed.

  One of the women was crying and cursing the “damned filthy Nations police” over one of the bodies, and the other woman was sitting stonily, staring at her handcuffs with a faint sneer.

  “Where’s Brittain?” roared Karnes. The man was nowhere in the room.

  “Gone,” said one of the cops. “Evidently he skipped out while the rest of us were unconscious. He was the guy who threw the bomb.”

  Karnes glanced at his watch. One sixteen in the morning. They had been out about twelve or thirteen minutes.

  “Where the devil did he go? How in—”

  Lieutenant Carnotti came up to him, a look of self-disgust on his face. “I know how he got away, Mr. Karnes; I just talked to the boys on the roof. He grabbed a uniform coat and cap off Sergeant Joseph while he was out and commandeered a ’copter on the roof.”

  * * * *

  Karnes didn’t wait for further information. He ran out into the hall and into the open elevator. Within less than a minute, he was on the roof.

  One cop was speaking rapidly into a transmitter.

  “—number 3765. Left about ten minutes ago, supposedly for the hospital. Officer Powers in the ’copter with him.”

  He cut off and looked at Karnes, who was standing over him. His gun was out before he spoke. “Who are you, buddy.�
�

  Karnes told him who he was. The cop looked skeptical. Karnes didn’t have his hat on, and his clothes were a bit rumpled after his nap on the floor.

  Karnes didn’t need to say anything; another policeman was going through his pockets, and he found the billfold. As soon as they saw the forgeproof identity card, they relaxed.

  “Sorry, Mr. Karnes,” said the man at the transceiver, “but we’ve already let one man get away.”

  Karnes nodded. “I know. Pure blind luck that his suit was almost the same shade as that gray uniform you guys wear, or he’d never have got away with it. All he needed was the jacket and cap.”

  “Have any idea which way he went?”

  The cop shrugged. “He came up here and told us that three men had been shot down below and some more gassed. He said Mr. Lansberg had sent him for a hospital call. Then he jumped in a ’copter with Powers and headed northeast. We didn’t pay much attention. After all, he was wearing a sergeant’s stripes.”

  Northeast. That would be toward Long Island. But, naturally, he would circle; he wouldn’t be dumb enough to head in the right direction until he was out of sight. Or would he?

  “Get on that radio again,” he told the radioman, “—and tell them I want that man alive. Get that—alive!”

  “Right.” The officer switched on his microphone and began to talk.

  Karnes pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes in an attempt to concentrate. With Lansberg shot up, that put the Brittain case in his hands. Theoretically, he should be pumping the prisoners down below to find out how much higher the spy ring went.

  But his real interest lay in Brittain, himself. There was no doubt that he had received another message from the impressor before he had thrown it down.

  Evidently, when the thing broke, the unknown energies which powered it had short-circuited, paralyzing everyone in the room with their mind-impressing effect.

  Then why hadn’t it affected Brittain? Perhaps his recent exposure to a normal dosage had immunized him. There was no way of knowing—there never would be.

  But what was the message Brittain had received from the impressor that would make him react so violently? It couldn’t be the same one that he, Karnes, had received.

  Continued on Stratum Two!

  Sure; that was it! Like the pages in a book. He, himself, had been hit with page one; Brittain had page two. Page three? Lost forever.

  Why hadn’t they found that ’copter by now? It ought to be easy enough to spot.

  He walked over to the edge of the building and looked down. The police were herding the prisoners into the ground cars. Presently, they were gone. One of the police officers touched his shoulder.

  “Ready to go, Mr. Karnes?”

  Karnes nodded and climbed into the ’copter. The machine lifted and headed toward the Central Police Station.

  He was still trying to think when the phone rang. The policeman picked it up.

  “3217. Brown speaking. Oh? Yeah, just a second. It’s for you, Mr. Karnes.”

  Karnes took the instrument. “Karnes speaking.”

  “Radio Central, Mr. Karnes,” came the voice. “We just got some more on Brittain. About ten minutes ago, he abandoned the police ’copter. Officer Powers was in the seat, shot through the head. We’ll get the essobee on a murder rap, now.”

  “Where was the ’copter abandoned?”

  Radio Central told him and went on: “Funny thing was, he didn’t try to hide it or anything. And he stole another ’copter from a private citizen. We’re trying to get the description now. I’ll call you if anything further comes in.”

  “Fine.” Karnes hung up. The address where Brittain had left the ’copter was in almost a direct line between the apartment building and Long Island Spaceport. But if Brittain were actually heading there, why should he leave such a broad and obvious trail?

  He turned to the officer who was driving the ’copter.

  “I’ve got a hunch. Swivel this thing around and head for Long Island. I’ve got a funny feeling that Brittain will be there. He—”

  The phone rang again, and Karnes grabbed it.

  “Mr. Karnes, we’ve found that civilian’s ’copter! It’s at Long Island Spaceport! Just a second, the stuff’s still coming in.” Pause. “Get this: A man answering to Brittain’s description bought a ticket for the West Coast rocket.

  “As you know, that’s UN territory, and we have no jurisdiction. The rocket is sealed for takeoff, but they’re holding it for us until you get there!”

  “Right! I’m headed there now!” he answered quickly.

  It was twelve minutes later that the police ’copter settled just outside the rocket enclosure. Karnes had already notified the pilot to be ready for him. He sprinted up the ramp and stood at the airlock of the transcontinental rocket.

  It sighed open, and Karnes stepped inside. He was met by a frightened stewardess.

  “Tell him to get in here and not to try any funny stuff!” snapped a voice from the passenger cabin.

  Brittain was standing at the forward end of the passenger compartment with a levelled gun.

  The rocket was tilted at forty-five degrees for the takeoff, and the passenger’s seats had swiveled with a section of the flooring to keep them level, which gave the effect of a stairway which climbed toward the pilot’s cabin in the forward section of the ship. Brittain’s position was at the top of the stairway.

  Karnes raised his hands and kept them carefully away from his hip holster.

  “All right,” called Brittain, “Close that door and get this ship off the ground.”

  The pilot could hear him through the intercom system. The airlock door slid shut again.

  “You and the stewardess get into a seat,” the spy continued sharply. “If you try anything funny, I start shooting the other passengers if I can’t hit you.”

  Karnes saw then what hold Brittain had on the pilot. The rocketeer couldn’t afford to risk the lives of his passengers.

  He and the stewardess slid into the acceleration seats and strapped themselves in. Brittain stepped down the tiered floor and took a rear seat near a frightened-looking blonde girl.

  “Anything funny, and Blondie here gets a bullet. Okay, pilot. Take her up!”

  There was a faint hiss, and then the rockets began their throbbing roar. Acceleration pressure began to shove the passengers back in their seats. Karnes leaned back and tried—successfully—to suppress the smile of triumph that kept trying to come to his lips.

  Brittain had finally made a mistake.

  One hundred and twenty-five miles over Pennsylvania, the rockets cut out, and the ship went into free fall. And Brittain’s mistake became evident.

  With the abrupt cessation of weight, the padded acceleration seats expanded again, pressing the passengers up against their safety straps. But Brittain had failed to strap himself in.

  The expanding seat shoved forward and toward the ceiling. Before he could recover from his surprise, Karnes had undone his own seat belt and snapped his body through the air toward Brittain. They collided with a thump and Brittain’s body slammed against the roof of the cabin with agonizing force. The gun came out of his hand and clanged against a wall, then drifted off harmlessly. Brittain was out cold.

  Karnes handcuffed him securely and, with the stewardess’ help, tugged him back to the baggage compartment. One of the passengers was quietly retching into a vacuum disposal chute.

  With Brittain securely strapped into an empty baggage rack, Karnes swam back to the pilot’s compartment, pulling himself along the railing that ran along the floor.

  The pilot looked relieved. “Thank heaven you got the devil! He got wise when we delayed the takeoff, and threatened to start shooting my passengers. There wasn’t a thing I could do.”

  “I know. Let me use your radio.”

  It took a couple of minutes to get UN International Investigation on the hookup, but Karnes finally was talking to his superior in the UN office. He reported wha
t had happened.

  “Fine, Karnes,” came the tight-beamed voice. “Now, here’s something else you ought to know. Our radar net has spotted robot rockets coming in over the Pole. So far, five of them have been hit by interceptor rockets, but we don’t have them all by a long shot.

  “Evidently, the League feels that they’re ready to slam us, now that they’ve got Moonbase and two of our spacecraft plants out of the way. The war is on, Karnes.”

  Karnes acknowledged, they cut the connection.

  There was one thing burning hotly in his brain. Brittain had fled New York without seeming to care how far they traced him or what kind of trail he left behind. Why?

  He jerked open the door of the pilot’s cabin, and, not bothering to use the rail, launched himself toward the rear of the ship, flipping himself halfway down to land with his feet against the baggage room door. He pulled the door open and pushed inside.

  Brittain was still groggy, so Karnes began slapping his face methodically, rocking his head from side to side.

  “Okay! Okay! Stop it!” Brittain yelled, fully awake.

  Karnes stopped, and Brittain blinked, owlishly. Karnes’ hunch factory was still operating at full blast; he was fairly sure that the lie he was about to tell would have all of the desired effect.

  “You didn’t really think you could get away, did you, bud?” he asked, nastily. “We’re headed back for New York now, and you’ll stand trial for murder as well as sabotage and espionage.”

  Brittain’s eyes widened in horror.

  “What did that mind impressor tell you?” Karnes went on.

  Brittain was trying to keep his mouth shut, but at that moment there was a glare of light which flashed bluely through the hard quartz of a nearby window.

  From somewhere far to the north, another interceptor rocket had found the atomic warhead of an enemy bomb.

  Brittain knew and recognized that flash. He screamed wordlessly and then began to sob like a hysterical child.

  Karnes began to slap him again. “Come on, what was it?”

  “Don’t—don’t let them go back to New York! It said—it said—” he gasped and took a deep breath “—WE’LL ALL BE KILLED!” he screamed.

  “Why?” Karnes’s voice was cold.